


Greater Than You Know

by PlotDotOh (TheCheerfulPornographer), radial_symmetry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, Gen, Moriarty is a collective, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/PlotDotOh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/radial_symmetry/pseuds/radial_symmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times John Watson isn't what he seems to be, and one time that he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greater Than You Know

**1\. storyteller**

He has starred in hundreds of stories, played a thousand different roles, and in all of them not once has he ever been the villain. He's always the good guy, trustworthy, dependable. Good old John, as warm and comforting as the woolen jumpers that he so carefully selects.

He's been a soldier, a doctor, a writer, a spy — even a nanny, that one memorable time. He's been a lover and a friend, an innocent and a tease, been straight and gay and something in-between. Whatever he needed to be; anything, for the role. He's done shopping and made tea and shot men and saved lives.

And, more than anything else, he's listened.

Above all things, John Watson knows how to listen. How to listen, and how to say the right thing back. The exact right thing to make you love him, make you _need_ him.

This is his talent.

There's a particular smile that he loves to bestow. It's warm and open and just a touch shy, in a way that invites the target inside. Says, you can trust me. "It's fine. It's all fine."

John Watson knows how to make it all seem fine.

 

**2\. healer**

Mike and John meet in medical school. There is something that draws them together right away: a sense that these two, alone among the students in their class, are there for very similar reasons.

Why does someone become a doctor?

Often, it's for noble, unselfish reasons: the desire to help others, to make a difference, to save lives. Or, just as often, for boring and self-centered ones: social status, money, family pride.

But some few do it for a reason that is different altogether. They like the feeling of holding another person's life in their hands, fragile and precious; of placing a thumb over the scales of life and death; of wielding life, the ability to grant or to deny it with one cut, just a slight curve to the left or to the right. To stop the blood rushing out, to put it all back inside; or to allow it to flow freely, over the hands, reddening pale arms up to the wrist.

Such power. To give or take life, for no reason at all.

John Watson sees a spark in Mike Stamford's eyes, and knows that here, finally, is someone who understands. Understands why no reason is _needed_.

\---

They develop an easy sort of partnership. Mike Stamford is brilliant at organizing people, at making connections. And John gives him exactly what he needs: a reason to put those skills to use. Meanwhile, John takes care of the people side of things.

Then, one day, Mike meets Sherlock Holmes.

 

**3\. soldier**

"Oh here, use mine." He hands over the phone, barely keeps himself from smiling bigger and broader than _this_ John Watson would.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Oh yes, very good. Very good indeed. Mike shoots him a little smirk across the room, and he's glad that Sherlock will misinterpret its intent.

John has thought carefully about this role; about how he will seem, what his story will be. He has strong hopes that he will need every ounce of that preparation, if what Mike said is true. (Oh God, how he hopes that it is.)

\---

What Mike had said: "He seems a bit like you."

John scoffs. "No one is _like_ me." He gives the words a scornful twist.

"Nonetheless. He calls himself a sociopath, you know."

John's ears prick up. Despite himself, he is intrigued.

"Is he?"

"Difficult to say. He certainly shows many of the signs."

"But?"

"Well." Mike hesitates. He knows that John hates it when he tries to judge someone's character. Reading people is John's area.

"Anyway, you should meet him at least. See what you can pick up."

"Yes. Okay." John pulls himself up, grateful as ever for his short stature. His height makes it even easier for people to trust him, to think of him as harmless and cute. (He loves it when people do that, always takes care to remember their faces and names. Just in case he needs them, later on.)

"Give me three days."

\---

He is particularly proud of the cane — a stroke of genius, right there. A _psychosomatic_ limp. It provides just a touch of vulnerability, but in a circumstance that suggests nobility and inner strength. No one can resist a fallen hero, after all.

He is grateful that he won't actually have to injure himself, this time. He always regrets the time spent — wasted — on recovery. Fortunately, being _truly_ disabled wouldn't get him far; Sherlock would have little sympathy for anyone who couldn't physically and mentally keep up. (Rightfully so.)

But psychosomatic — yes. That implies a puzzle, points to hidden mysteries inside the brain. What better to snare the self-described genius?

\---

He has in fact been shot in the shoulder. That much is true. (Write what you know, they always say.)

After she fired, Harry turned the gun toward her own head. The last words she ever spoke were "forgive me".

John dissected her himself.

\---

The trick in building a persona is to create many layers.

First, the unassuming exterior. (This is standard fare; John Watson knows his strengths. And god, he really does love those woolen jumpers.)

Beneath that, he decides, will go the doctor layer. The noble type of doctor, who would run toward danger in order to save lives.

Below that, the soldier, who is used to taking orders: the man who will let himself be pushed around, to a degree. Who will buy groceries and cook and always make the tea. Who will retrieve phones from jackets; who will come when he is called. Who will run toward danger because someone else tells him to go.

Below that, the true hero, calm under fire, the man with nerves of steel. Someone who would take, or deliver, a bullet for any friend. Always loyal, always brave; the one who runs toward danger because there might be some way, _any_ way, in which he can help.

And below even that goes the tormented soul: the PTSD-ridden, nightmare-fearing vet. Addicted to the war going on inside his head; he of trembling hands, he of the cane. The one who runs toward danger because he has no choice, because he cannot ever, _ever_ allow himself to run away.

And somewhere tiny and deep, beneath all of this, John Watson hides himself. His _real_ self, who isn't any of those things. Who isn't really _anything_.

If he makes it long enough, Sherlock will get to see those other selves. All except for this last one.

The one that doesn't run toward danger at all.

The one who knows that danger is always, exactly where he wants it to be.

\---

(Dear god, did he just _wink_ at me? Oh, this just keeps getting better.)

 

**4\. protector**

The cabbie is Mike's — one of his patients. Aneurysm. Any breath could be his last.

When John goes to see him, it is easy enough to draw him in. He sees the attachment — the _love_ — in the man's eyes when John looks at the picture of his kids. Hears the faintest tinge of anger, the bitterness over a wasted life and the incredible unfairness of it all.

Unfair. Ah, yes. It's so very unfair.

John smiles. "They're lovely. What are their names?"

\---

It will be easy to make Sherlock believe. He wants it to be so, wants it very very much. John understands this. (Of course he understands this. He understands it better than anyone else could.)

The desire for an equal, a balancing force. Someone for Sherlock to dash his mind against until it breaks open and leaves him in peace; someone to mingle into, and to crash up against. It is so _easy_ to create Moriarty; Sherlock practically wills him into existence on his own.

\---

And then the cabbie nearly gives it away, right at the start. "Others." "They." "So much more than just a man."

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

(John is listening in, of course. All of them are. He's pleased that Sherlock figures out the gun so quickly. Not that he'd expected any less.)

Still, the man almost redeems himself. Acts his part admirably. Brings Sherlock back, keeps the question hanging over them, all just as he'd been persuaded to do. (It hadn't taken much, in the end. Everyone is a lock, and John has the master key.)

But the fact remains that the man had messed up. If Sherlock hadn't known what he wanted to hear, hadn't already been _hearing_ what he wanted to hear… it could have put their whole plan at risk.

So once John sees what he needs to see, once the pill is almost into the mouth — once he knows for _sure_ that Sherlock would risk his life to answer a question just because it's been asked — he goes ahead and shoots the man.

It isn't hard. He's not a very _nice_ man, after all.

\---

(Now then. What else are you willing to give up?)

 

**5\. conscience**

When Mike finds James Morris, John knows that they have stumbled onto a very real prize. James is brilliant and erratic — a coiled rattlesnake looking for a reason to strike. He lashes out with unpredictable brutality, and then breaks down into a giddy glee. He is brilliant, when he can keep it together long enough; and he is utterly, unredeemably, batshit insane.

John wants to give him the target that he doesn't know he needs.

\---

After three rounds, the jury is still out. In the end, John resorts to simply _asking_ Sherlock.

"There are _lives_ at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

(Please give the right answer. Just give it, and we can put an end to this game. Go on to greater things.)

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

It is a curiously-constructed sentence, and one that John needs a minute to decode. And how typically Sherlockian it turns out to be, hiding the truth inside its own negation.

" _I'll continue not to make that mistake._ "

Oh.

(So you do care about saving them, then.)

For just a microsecond, his face gives him away.

"I've disappointed you."

Luckily, the situation is easily saved; the emotion is kept, but the motive disguised. Channeled to something matching _this_ John Watson's moral sense.

"That's a good — good deduction. Yeah."

\---

The thing with the bombs and the snipers, that's all James. The puzzle-crimes, those are organized by Mike.

And Sherlock belongs to John.

 

**0\. heart**

Moriarty is a figment, nothing but a name, the word chosen by Mike because it sounds right. The backstage crew is quite large, the starring players only three: James Morris, Mike Stamford, and John Watson.

James Morris is Moriarty's face, and he plays it well. (All the better because, for him, it isn't _playing_.) Mike Stamford is the organizing mind; he plants the clues, works the phones, arranges transport.

But John Watson — he is Moriarty's heart and soul.

And they construct a mad game from all these pieces, just for him. Just for Sherlock. Because that's what Sherlock _needs_. And this is, in the end, all about what Sherlock needs.

John Watson does so love to give people what they need.

\---

He takes a deep breath, prepping for the final scene.

This is it. Sherlock's big chance to show them who he is. To show them what he will sacrifice, in order to not be alone anymore.

Buried in the parka that hides the fake bomb vest, John Watson steps out into the light.

"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first fanfic.


End file.
